


Lost Girl

by sjalapatoe



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Female Bard, Love/Hate, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:32:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjalapatoe/pseuds/sjalapatoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosalya Trevelyan had been lost for many years. Time had left quite the mark on her, both mentally and physically. Most recently, the physical mark manifested as big, green glowing cracks in her left hand that opened and closed portals to another world. </p><p>As it turns out, the Lost Girl of Ostwick is now better known as the Herald of Andraste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden she is a prisoner, and she can remember nothing of how she got here or why.

‘Waking up had never been her strongest suit’ was the first full sentence that came to mind when she opened her eyes. You’d think that after years of traveling she’d be used to waking up to strange sights, but her heart skipped a few beats every time it happened, until she remembered where she’d made her bed the night before.

But as she opened her eyes, she found she could hardly recall anything of the night, or the day, or the week before. Her head pounded, but she woke up with head trauma more often than not – be it from drinking too much ale or getting into a fight again. 

The air around her was humid and she felt wet, cold stone beneath her body. The last time she’d been in a cave had been a while ago, the last time probably when she was scavenging the old caverns beneath the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But she hadn’t had to camp inside the cave any of those times. She had a room in a tavern at the foot of the mountain, in Haven.

As she waited for the room to stop spinning, she tried to remember what day it was. She had a vague notion of being here for the Conclave, but was it over yet? Many of the people she’d spoken with had expected the Conclave to take at least a week. She couldn’t have been out for longer than a day, she wasn’t even hungry yet. Only slightly thirsty. If only she could get up, she could try and find some ale in her pack or wherever she was right now.

She moved her hands around and realized they were shackled. With a light groan, she moved her legs to push her upper body off the floor. Her head still spun, but she could focus a bit better now. She sat up on her knees, since any other position was difficult with her hands shackled. As her eyes adjusted, she moved her hands over the stone floor around her. Her hands came up muddy and wet and she wiped them on her pants. 

She recoiled with a loud hiss, almost dropping to the ground again. The fabric on her left leg was in tatters, her armor in ruins. A big gash in her leg peeked from beneath the rags, hot and sensitive to the touch. She closed her eyes, willing the pain away. 

A warrior woman burst in, her eyes betraying her Nevarran descent. The woman had her hand on the hilt of her sword – she seemed ready to attack. The shackled woman couldn’t figure out why, but she was more concerned with shielding her eyes from the bright light the hallway behind the door brought into the room.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you right now,” the woman threatened, hand tightening on her weapon. Yep, Nevarran accent. The prisoner had averted her eyes from the light, but as the warrior moved, she could see her sharp features and short, dark hair more clearly. Taking in every detail, she decided that staying silent might be the best course of action now. She didn’t want to anger the warrior any further.

“No?” the Nevarran continued. “Then tell me this: who are you? Why are you here? Who sent you?”  
“I… I don’t even know the day,” the captive sputtered. “Has the Conclave started yet?”

“Started? It has _ended_ ,” the warrior spat, “with you blowing up the Temple! The Conclave is destroyed and everyone is dead… Except for you.” The woman lunged at the prisoner, who tried to protect herself by lifting her shackled hands. The warrior grabbed onto her left hand, opened the shackle and ripped of the heavy chainmail glove that had covered the prisoner’s hand until then.

As soon as the light of the fire hit the prisoner’s hand, green light sparked through cracks in her skin. She whimpered as a searing pain burned through the bones in her arm, amplifying the pounding in her skull. 

“Explain this!” the warrior shouted, waving the prisoner’s hand in front of her face.  
“I- I can’t,” she responded monotonously, staring at the terrifying mark on her hand. Her heart was beating with the same intensity as her head now. She was scared out of her mind. This confusion, not knowing what’s happening, being in the dark about everything – she’d never experienced it like this before. 

The captive shrunk away from the warrior’s anger and stared at the ground as her head tried to keep up. She’d trained for this – years of training and practice and discipline and experience even, she should’ve been prepared for an assault of this kind. But her mind was blank and it made her anxious. She’d been taught not to be afraid of pain, of dying, but she’d never lost her… identities before.

With none of her trusted methods at hand, she went with her only option: she could play up this act of confusion. Play dumb until she regained her memories fully. It might give the warrior woman the time she needed to calm down and stop threatening to kill her.

“What do you mean you can’t?!”  
“I don’t know how it got there,” the captive’s voice was high and breathy. “I don’t know how _I_ got here.” She held her left arm against her chest in an attempt to lighten the pain that pulsed through it. “It hurts-“

The Nevarran warrior lunged at her again, this time going for her collar, lifting the prisoner into the air until her knees were hovering slightly over the cold tiles.  
“Careful, Cassandra,” a soft, melodious voice came from the doorway as another woman entered the cell. “We need her. Or at the very least the mark on her hand.”  
The warrior, Cassandra, promptly let go of the prisoner, who dropped back onto the ground with a smack. Catching herself on her good knee and her still shackled right hand, she took a moment to glance at the new appearance in the room.

She knew this woman. It took her a moment to connect the appearance to the right name. Leliana, Left Hand of Divine Justinia. Cassandra must then be the mysterious Right Hand. The Left Hand was known throughout Orlais and Ferelden for her role in ending the Fifth Blight, but the prisoner knew even more about Leliana. She’d traveled with both old friends and enemies of this woman. 

The prisoner snuck a glance again at Leliana, intrigued at finally seeing this legend in person, after hearing and reading and learning so much about her. But as her eyes met with Leliana’s, she was shocked at the cold front in her blue eyes. Leliana looked positively murderous, despite the softness of her voice as she asked the prisoner: “Do you remember what happened?”

“I remember running?” the captive said, unsure of her own answer. “Things were.. chasing me, and then a woman appeared.”  
“A woman?” Leliana repeated.  
“She reached out to me,” the captive mumbled. She stared at her green-glowing hand again with wide eyes and a frown.

Cassandra sighed, giving up on making any sense of what the prisoner said. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.” This time grabbing the prisoner’s right hand, she hauled her to her feet.

“I’ll ask you again,” she said sternly to the prisoner, looking at her directly. “What is your name?”  
“It’s, uh,” the prisoner stammered as she tried to remember her own name. “It’s Rosalya.”

“You’re not in the habit of giving your family name, I see?” Cassandra panned disdainfully. She swapped the iron shackles Rsoalya had been trapped in for a simple rope knot, binding her hands together in front of her. She remembered her family name, but there were about two hundred reasons not to say it. “I don’t remember anything else.”

Cassandra dragged her through a long hallway and Rosalya stumbled after her, barely having enough strength in her body to stay standing. “What did happen?” she finally asked Cassandra, still not daring to look up from the ground. From the corner of her eyes she saw Cassandra look at her and sigh. “It will be easier to show you.” With that, she threw open the door of what looked to be Haven’s Chantry and pushed her captive outside.

Rosalya squinted against the bright light, waiting until her eyes adjusted before looking up at the sky. For a blissful second, everything looked normal, but then she saw the big rift in the sky, the same green light that shone through the cracks in her left hand, pouring from it. She saw demons come out of the rift, rapidly descending to the ground between the mountains. 

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra said brusquely. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons. It grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift – just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

“An explosion can do that?” Rosalya asked before thinking. As soon as she’d finished her question, the rift pulsed, tore open further. Ear-piercing shrieks echoed through the mountains, mirrored by the shriek Rosalya let out as the cracks in her hand expanded as well. “Each time the breach expands, your mark spreads. It is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t that much time.” Cassandra said no more, evidently hoping this would be enough for Rosalya to understand without having to explicitly state it. 

“I understand,” Rosalya finally responded. “I’ll do what I can.”


	2. Sealing the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the mark on her hand threatening to kill her, Rosalya sets out with Cassandra to try and seal the Breach.

Halfway across the town they passed a supply cache. Cassandra grabbed three health potions and handed Rosalya one, who gratefully gulped it down. She felt the warmth spread from her throat to her stomach, through the rest of her body until her fingertips tingled with new energy.

Rosalya put the flask down on a crate she passed by. The woman standing next to it glared at her as she moved aside for Rosalya. She looked away, deciding not to pay attention to it. If Cassandra and Leliana believed her to have blown up the Temple, then surely every commoner had by now heard at least six conspiracy theories about her. But as long as her name was still unknown, this was not a problem.

Soon after leaving the town of Haven, the two women encountered their first group of demons. Rosalya wasn’t sure whether Cassandra had any prior experience with this type of enemy, but she had never fought anything like it before. While the demons looked truly terrifying, she immediately gathered they weren’t stronger than any foe she’d dealt with before.

The only difference being, she hadn’t been bound and disarmed when dealing with those foes.

“Hey lady!” Rosalya shouted as she avoided an ice beam from a floating demon by diving behind a big rock. “A little help would be nice!”

Obviously, if she wanted to keep up this charade, she shouldn’t be _too_ impressive in combat. That would give her away immediately. If she wanted to be judged innocent, she should appear as harmless as possible. A little girl who doesn’t know the difference between an axe and a mace couldn’t possibly blow up the Conclave…

Cassandra struck down a big, flaming demon and retreated to where Rosalya was hiding. “You just stay here,” Cassandra instructed. “And if a demon comes, you find another stone.”

Well, that’s great advice, in theory. But no sooner had Cassandra gone back to slay more demons, or one of the blue floaty ones caught sight of her. Rosalya quickly pushed off of the ground and pretty much stumbled away from another ice beam. She passed an injured soldier in her search for a new place to take cover. Seeing he could still be saved, she grabbed his upper arm and dragged him with her. She propped him up against the stone, his eyelids drooping as he fought to stay awake.

“You stay awake, soldier,” she said, lowering her voice and faking a Fereldan accent. “That’s an order.” She patted his armor, looking for a weapon she could use to defend herself with.

“Are you- the new sergeant?” the soldier stammered hoarsely. Rosalya lifted his arm and found a small dagger hanging from his belt. “I am,” Rosalya responded in her Fereldan character, glad her skills were coming back to her.

She fumbled with the dagger until she managed to hold it comfortably in her right hand. She crouched behind the stone, shielding the soldier from the fight. Cassandra had hacked and slashed through the biggest of the demons, while other soldiers were going after the wisps. The only demon missing was that Maker forsaken ice demon that kept going after her. Rosalya turned back to look for it, only to find it right in front of her again.

With a loud shout, she pushed herself away from the stone and slammed her body into the demon. She felt frost crawling over the skin of her left hand, but it actually quite soothed the pain the mark left. She pushed the dagger into the demon’s chest, who screeched and pushed Rosalya back against the stone. Rosalya pushed a leg between the demon and herself, keeping enough space to pull out the dagger and stabbing it in the creature’s head. This seemed to do the trick; the demon shattered and she was left panting with the dagger in front of her.

“Rosalya!” Cassandra shouted behind her. With another look at the soldier, who looked a bit better than before at least, she moved away from her hiding place. The coast was clear, so she moved towards Cassandra. A soldier passed her and she told him about his colleague behind the stone. He nodded and saluted, which Rosalya found very odd.

The next thing she knew, she had a Nevarran sword pointed at her throat. She recoiled with a gasp, but Cassandra followed her.

“Drop the dagger,” she hissed. Realizing her mistake, Rosalya dropped it as If the dagger was burning her. “I just, the demon, it-“

“Don’t think you can trick me, Rosalya.”

“But I’m not!” her voice rose almost involuntarily. “A soldier gave me one so I could do something to that flying demon-creature!” She fell silent for a short second. “ _Demons!_ ” she repeated. “I’ve- I’ve never…” Rosalya put her face in her hands and breathed in deeply. Oh, she was fine. She’d _seen_ demons before. Heard all the stories, too. And while this _was_ the first time she was fighting them, the sight of them didn’t nearly scare her as much as she was making it look like.

Cassandra softened at seeing the fear in her prisoner’s actions and pulled her sword away slightly. “Very well,” she acquiesced. “I cannot protect you and I cannot expect you to be defenseless. You need to get to the Breach for yourself as much as for us. I should remember that.” Cassandra removed the rope from Rosalya’s wrists and waited as she picked up the dagger.

They soon encountered the first actual rift. Luckily, there weren’t that many demons around – by the time Cassandra and her prisoner had gotten close enough, the coast was clear: only the rift was left. A bald elf grabbed Rosalya’s hand and pushed it towards the rift. A green light shot from the mark on her hand to the rift, and the rift closed.

Rosalya pulled her hand away and held it to her chest again; pins and needles shooting up and down her arm as the magic in the mark fought to leave, or maybe destroy, her body. “What did you do?” she asked the elf meekly.

“I did nothing. The credit is yours.” How this elf could be so calm when there were demons and green fireballs flying past was beyond her. Normally she got excited at finding puzzles, especially if they came in the form of people, but right now Rosalya just wanted to know how she could suddenly do magic. She sure as hell hoped she hadn’t just discovered her magic abilities at the very late age of three and twenty.

“I closed that thing? How?”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach seems to have embedded itself in your hand, too. I theorized that, if it can open a rift, it should be able to close one too,” the elf explained. So he’d even had time to theorize over Rosalya’s hand? When all of this was done, she’d have to get someone to give her a timeline. She could not get a clear picture of what had happened and who had been there.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” Cassandra said, while staring at Rosalya’s hand with great interest. 

“That’s good to know,” a new voice joined their conversation. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

Rosalya almost laughed at how this guy talked compared to Cassandra and the elf. The last two took great care in pronouncing every word neatly, and here this dwarf came in cursing in the first sentence she heard. “My name is Varric Tethras,” he introduced himself with an exaggerated flourish, “Rogue, storyteller and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” The last bit he said with a sideways look to Cassandra, who frowned and almost growled at him. Filing this away in her mind under ‘find out what their deal is later’, Rosalya decided to get them back on track. “So I closed the rift, what now?”

“Now we go to meet Leliana,” Cassandra answered.

“Great idea!” Varric grinned, already moving towards the forward camp.

“ _Absolutely_ not,” Casssandra growled at the dwarf, who didn’t seem fazed at the hostility at all. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but-“  
“Seeker. Have you _seen_ the valley lately? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me,” Varric smiled sweetly, keeping the edge off his sarcasm just enough. Cassandra seemed to accept her fate, and merely grunted and turned.

“My name is Solas,” the elf said as they followed Cassandra. “I’ve been monitoring your health since you showed up at the Temple.”

“What he means is ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’,” Varric interjected from the front.

“Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra explained further, looking at them over her shoulder.

“Technically, every mage is an apostate now,” Solas responded, calm as ever, before returning to Rosalya again. “I’ve spent a lot of time traveling through the Fade, so I have a more detailed knowledge of these rifts than most mages. I’ve come to help battle this strange magic.”

“I’m no mage, though,” Rosalya said, not completely sure what she was saying is actually true. “Right?”

“You’re not a mage, indeed,” Solas responded. Rosalya quietly breathed out a sigh of relief. “The magic involved here is much different than any mage’s I’ve ever encountered.” He turned to Cassandra. “I find it difficult to believe your prisoner could have the power to cause this.”

Was that an insult? Rosalya did not get time to think on that, because Varric slowed down until he was walking next to her. “So are you innocent?”

“I like to think I am, but I don’t remember anything.”

“Ah, that’ll get you every time. Should’ve spun a story!” Varric replied with a grin. He seemed to enjoy being in the middle of this chaos.

“That’s what you would’ve done,” Cassandra sighed sourly as she glanced at Varric again.

 There was not much time for conversations as Team Close the Breach found another rift. With this rift closed, the gates to the forward camp could be opened and they met up with Leliana and Chancellor Roderick, who immediately called for her execution.

Just when she thought she was on her way to redeeming herself, this guy shows up and ruins it. Rosalya could hardly think of a way to respond, but Cassandra beat her to it. “You mean to order me, Chancellor Roderick? You are no more than a glorified bureaucrat!” she spat at him. Rosalya wasn’t sure whether this was Cassandra’s own doing, but she seemed to have a lot of bad blood with people here.

As another discussion about the Chantry began, Rosalya felt another flash of pain on her arm. Having perfected the art of masking pain, though, she waited until it was gone before asking: “Shouldn’t we be focusing on the Breach?”

The discussion stopped mid-sentence as they turned to her. Cassandra nodded and turned to Leliana, to form a plan. Rosalya looked around her, but kept listening as they talked over their options.

“What do you think we should do?” she suddenly heard. She turned back to Cassandra and Leliana, and saw them looking expectantly at her.

“Oh, uh- you’re asking me?!” Rosalya exclaimed.  
“You are the one with the mark,” Solas said serenely.

“And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…” Rosalya thought for a few seconds before answering. “I think we should take the mountain’s path.”

And before she’d realized it, they were on their way again. Cassandra was not the only one eager to be rid of Chancellor Roderick’s failed threats and dramatic exclamations. If, to get away from the Chancellor, she had to fight demons and close a huge tear in the sky, then so be it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell in love with this OC I dreamt up, so I had to write her story. I've got about 20k words written as of right now and that's just setting things up... I feel this will be a very long one.


	3. A noble's daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalya takes a moment to find herself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in Spain for a few weeks! I've written a lot, but didn't get the chance to upload anything. I'll probably upload a few more chapters in the next few hours/days.

Later on, she could hardly remember exactly what had gone down after they’d left the forward camp. Her memories of closing the Breach were hardly clearer than what had happened at the Conclave. Rosalya figured she must have been running on empty by then, her body just following the motions.

It turned out she’d passed out again after closing the rift at the Temple, because she woke up in a soft bed in a warm hut. The first thing she realized was that her hand didn’t as much as it had done before. She had just dared sitting up with her legs over the edge of the bed – wary of nausea – when the door opened and an elven boy walked in.

At seeing her up, he jumped and dropped the box he was holding. Thinking maybe he was afraid that she was dangerous, Rosalya didn’t move too much from her position. “Are you frightened of me?” she asked gently.

The elf was shaking as he bowed deeply. “I beg your forgiveness for waking you, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

“Oh, please don’t- what are you- where am I?” Rosalya stammered. What was he bowing down for? Last she heard, she was to be executed in Val Royeaux.

“You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.” He went silent for a moment, then shook himself from his thoughts. “I’m certain lady Pentaghast will want to know you’re awake. She said to let her know at once, and to ask you if you could join her in the Chantry when you’re ready. ‘At once!’ she said,” he stammered on, rushing out the door before Rosalya could ask him more.

Rosalya figured she’d best head to the Chantry – let’s not keep the Seeker waiting, right?

* * *

The conversation with Cassandra, Leliana and Roderick had gone way too fast for Rosalya. As soon as she got the chance, she stammered an apology to Cassandra and Leliana and fled the Chantry. One minute she was to be executed, now she’s suddenly one of the ‘leaders’ of the Inquisition?

Well, it wasn’t _her_ they wanted, exactly – it’s just the mark on her hand that made her of any importance to the Inquisition. But after having been on the run for so long, she could make this her home. They certainly had enough manpower to keep her safe.

But if she wanted to be safe, she’d have to get people to trust her. The way Leliana had stared at her during the conversation let her know that no one was convinced she was to be trusted. She had to figure out a way to change that.

Rosalya’d heard the murmur before, when she walked to the Chantry, but as she left the building it seemed there were only more people outside. The ‘Herald of Andraste’ was to be her next character, apparently. Sometimes all it takes is a good name, she figured. For now, it was odd. She had gotten used to a life on the sidelines and in the shadows, so being recognized by so many people made her feel anxious. If all these people knew her, then how could she ever escape her past?

She tried to ignore the stares as she made her way to the tavern, slipping in quickly. But the tavern wasn’t much better – it froze into a silence as everyone saw who had entered. Three soldiers in the corner were the first to move, saluting her. Two ladies standing in front of the bar inclined their heads – even the minstrel had stopped playing mid-song.

The lady behind the bar seemed to be considering wiping her sweaty face with the dirty rag she was holding, but decided against it, instead joining the stares.

“Are you… saluting _me_?” Rosalya asked the soldiers, who nodded, all at the same time.

“Uh, at ease, then. Carry on,” she followed with doubt clear in her voice. The soldiers relaxed, inclined their heads and sat down at their table again. The rest of the tavern followed suit, though some people still glanced at her occasionally. It was obvious everyone was talking about her now, but she decided to ignore it as she approached the barkeep. They were at least quiet enough about it that she didn’t _have_ to hear what they were saying about her.

“Hi,” Rosalya awkwardly greeted the barkeep.

“Name’s Flissa, my lady,” the barkeep quickly responded with a curtsy. “How may I help you?”

“Before the- before the Conclave, I stayed in your tavern,” Rosalya started carefully. “I’m wondering if my backpack might still be here.”

Flissa’s face paled for a second, but then she dove behind the bar. “Oh, my lady, for a second there I was afraid I might have given your belongings to the Chantry sisters. So many who stayed here never came back, and well, I can’t very well hold on to everyone’s stuff, right? So I gave it away- but-“

Rosalya waited patiently and listened to the muffled rambling as Flissa went through boxes and crates. When she popped up, she was holding a very familiar pack.

“That’s the one!” Rosalya said in relief, but then wondered. “Why did you keep this one?”

Flissa blushed. She probably hadn’t expected that question. “Well, I hope you’ll forgive me for this, my lady. I just thought it was a very nice pack. Might have come in useful someday. And I saw all the herbs on top inside, I was going to give those to Adan. He has been even more grumpy since he can’t find those old alchemist’s notes for-“ Her face flushed even further as she cut herself off. “Either way, I could not convince myself to get rid of it, but now it seems perhaps it was the Maker’s will.”

“I’m glad you kept it,” Rosalya responded finally. “Do I owe you anything for holding on to it?”

Flissa relaxed visibly at not having invoked the anger of the Herald of Andraste. “No, no, my lady! By all means. It was no trouble. On the house, if you will. I am glad to have been of service to you,” she rushed to get out all the words. Right. Rosalya smiled gratefully again and quickly left the tavern.

It was time to start ‘spinning a story’, as Varric had so wisely advised her. She had to get out of Haven – away from the prying eyes and loud whispers. Luckily, the gates were open and no one was paying attention to who came and went. She frowned at the lack of active protection, but perhaps she’d get back to that later, when she wasn’t so anxious anymore.

In the side of her backpack was a small flask with healing potion inside. It wasn’t very fresh, but it would do its job for a few hours. Rosalya gulped it down as she passed through the gates and looked for a place to hide for a while. Maybe she could find some elfroot to chew, and grab some extra while she’s at it to bring back to the healer’s hut.

She slipped past the soldiers, training in the field. Many new recruits, judging from the way most held their sword like it weighed a horse. No one paid attention to her as she took the path to the right and disappeared between the trees. 

She followed the path for a while, passing an empty hut with a lot of alchemy equipment outside. Thinking that maybe the notes Adan needed were in here, she decided to snoop around for a minute. Lo and behold, the notes were lying on the table. How no one had managed to find these yet was beyond her. Rosalya hoped Adan was more capable at alchemy than at finding notes.

Stuffing the notes in her backpack, she slipped out of the building and closed the door behind her. She started going off the path now, trudging through the snow, passing trees and climbing hills, looking for a spot out of the wind. She picked elfroot when she came across it and even found some loose chunks of iron in the rocks. The elfroot would be helpful for healing potions and iron could be used to improve armor.

She stumbled upon a logging stand hidden behind a big hill and sat down on one of the piles of wood. She put her backpack on the ground between her legs and unpacked a little leather bound book. It was filled with songs and stories she’d written, but it contained her characters too. They weren’t as easy to read as her songs, though, but she knew the code by heart. Even if someone somehow knew the code, they probably wouldn’t be bothered to read past the first few pages of sad stories and dumb songs to find out more.

Rosalya hoped that if she read through her journal again, she might remember more of what happened before the Breach opened. Right now, she couldn’t even remember why she’d even bothered to go to the Conclave. How had she even gotten in? She doubted the answer would be in her writing, but maybe something else would trigger the memory.

As she rifled through the pages, more and more names of her old characters started coming back to her. She’d switched many times lately, to avoid being followed. She didn’t think it worked – well, it definitely wouldn’t work now that she was part of the Inquisition and had a rather incriminating green mark on her hand.

Her anxiety rose as she remembered why she’d gone to the Conclave. Having been chased all around Orlais and even parts of Ferelden, she was tired and out of options. She’d hoped to ask someone there to take her into the Chantry, so she could be safe. She wouldn’t be the first from her line of work to hide in the house of the Maker.

Well, that plan had backfired, then, Rosalya sighed. There would be nowhere to hide now. But perhaps she could use the forces of the Inquisition to keep herself safe. But she’d have to give them a good story to make her think she needed protection.

She’d played the fool for Cassandra and Leliana before she closed the Breach so she couldn’t very well start showing off her skills with daggers and stealth now. The companions she’d fought with would never trust her again, but Roderick and his Chantry would have her head if they knew of her origins. But the only way someone doesn’t learn to fight is if they’re protected by someone else. One character, perhaps the truest of all the characters she had created, fit this situation perfectly. A quiet, shy noble’s daughter with just enough skills to survive against demons – after almost ten years, she would be Rosalya Trevelyan again.


	4. The Legend of the Lost Trevelyan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition finds out who Rosalya really is.

 When Rosalya Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, entered Haven, she was greeted by a true _committee_ at the wooden gates. Cassandra and Varric were the foremost members of this group. Rosalya approached them carefully, but the Seeker stepped forward before she could reach them.

“Where have you been?” she almost snarled, hands on her hips.

“I went to get some air-“ Rosalya started.

“Without letting anyone know?” Cassandra spat.

“Herald, you should know that, when she found your hut empty, the Seeker was ready to chop off Chancellor Roderick’s head,” Varric interjected as he pushed himself in front of Cassandra. He’d clearly been trying to talk Cassandra down as she tore about Haven trying to find Rosalya.

“I didn’t know it was that important- but listen, I’ve found this, uh-“ Rosalya rummaged through her backpack and pulled out the notes for Adan. “Notes for the alchemists…” she mumbled. Adan took the papers from her and for about three seconds, he looked happy before lapsing back into grumbling about how everything was terrible and nothing would ever be good again.

“And I found all of this elfroot and some iron but I don’t know who I should give it to,” Rosalya continued as she emptied her bag of the items and almost dropped everything in the process. Varric stepped forward and grabbed her loot from her. “I’ll handle that from here, kid. You just go with the Seeker.”

“Now that you are a part of the Inquisition, you should meet the rest of us. We might as well see if the Commander has time for us, seeing as we’re here now,” Cassandra explained as she guided Rosalya through the mess of sparring soldiers. Rosalya flinched away from any swords that came relatively close to her. Cassandra seemed unfazed by the chaos around her.

“Commander,” the Seeker called as they got close to him. He turned around smoothly, as if he’d heard them coming all along. Rosalya took a moment to take in his appearance. His skin was light, a typical Fereldan pale, but with warm eyes and hair that made him appear somewhat friendlier than the lines around his eyebrows and mouth suggested.

He was slightly taller than her – something worth nothing, as not many people could say that – wore heavy plate armor, fought with longsword and shield. He wore a thick, dark cape lined with.. fur? Feathers? Something fluffy, either way, around his neck. It seemed warm, though any Orlesian would laugh straight through their perfect mask at the primitive piece of clothing.

Rosalya liked it, though. What she wouldn’t give to wear a furlined or feathered cape with a hood again. The only one thing she had with her that came even close to that was the old doublesided scarf she’d had for years. The outside was a supple leather while the inside was lined with ram’s wool. It was long enough that she could wrap it around her shoulders and over her head as a hood at the same time.

While she examined him, Cassandra had continued talking, informing the Commander of the current state of the Inquisition. “Therefore, Commander, meet the Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra finished.

Cullen nodded politely at Rosalya and extended his hand. “Herald.”

Rosalya grabbed his hand and curtsied lightly, as was custom in most of Orlais. “Commander.” She would’ve said more, but found she had nothing relevant to say.

It was silent for a few seconds where Rosalya and Cullen were just looking at each other, before Cassandra jumped into action.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford was Knight-Commander of Kirkwall before he joined us,” she explained. “I thought he was the perfect person to oversee our forces.”

“Ah,” Rosalya noted with raised eyebrows. “You’re a Templar, then?”

“Ex-templar,” Cullen corrected her tightly. “I left the Order when I left Kirkwall.”

“Right,” Rosalya said carefully, “I’m sorry.” She looked down at the ground, her hands wringing. “I- I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I feel like I should say something about myself, but my head’s still a mess.”

“Well, you’ve only just woken up,” Cullen said comfortingly. “There’ll be time to talk later, I’m sure.”

Rosalya nodded again and took a tentative step back, looking to Cassandra for help.

“We’ll leave you to your training, Commander,” Cassandra said as she noticed the look on Rosalya’s face.

“Seeker,” Cullen nodded in goodbye. “Herald.”

Cassandra guided Rosalya into Haven, leading her towards the Chantry. But instead of walking up the stairs to the old building, she turned right and stopped in front of a tent. “Leliana has asked to speak with you. If you could find Ambassador Montilyet inside the Chantry when you’re done – and I implore you to let someone know if you decide to leave again.”

Rosalya felt thoroughly chastised at that last part. Cassandra could turn out to be a great mother someday, if she could let go of the cold warrior armor for long enough to let someone into her heart.

“Ah, Herald. Glad to see you’ve returned,” Leliana said in way of greeting as Rosalya entered the tent. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you,” Rosalya responded politely, standing in the tent opening with her hands together in front of her. She was silent for a second. “Seeker Pentaghast tells me you asked for me?” she finally asked.

“That’s correct,” Leliana responded, still looking over the mountain of reports on her table. Rosalya waited until Leliana was ready to start an actual conversation with her.

“A great many people have asked for your name,” Leliana finally stated. “The one _behind_ ‘Herald of Andraste’, obviously. They’ve been waiting for answers for a while now- as have I. I was wondering if you would help me respond to these questions?”

Rosalya smiled inwardly. Leliana was so careful and composed, but she saw the hint of frustration in the Spymaster’s eyebrows. “Of course, Sister. I suppose I should let you in on a few secrets, then.”

That got Leliana’s interest, as she froze for a moment before putting down the reports in her hands and turning to Rosalya fully. “Please, have a seat, Herald,” she offered one of the two low stools in the tent. Rosalya obliged her.

“Have you heard of Ostwick?” Rosalya started.

“Sadly, I haven’t been there. But I have heard of it, indeed.”

“Then, surely, you’ve heard the stories of the Lost Trevelyan.”

Leliana nodded, eager to see the point to this line of conversation.

“Well, you’ve found her,” Rosalya panned with a light smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

Leliana had yet to respond after thirty seconds. A myriad of expressions had crossed her face in that time, but Rosalya was content to let her work it out for herself.

Finally, Leliana smiled sweetly, as if she understood the joke. “Forgive me for saying this, Herald, but you do not exactly fit the description,” she said, the disbelief clear in her voice. She obviously thought Rosalya was trying to trick her. But she was right, of course. The Lost Trevelyan’s most prominent feature was her stark white hair, while Rosalya’s hair was anything but that.

“How do you think she’s been lost for near ten years? It’s a disguise. I left off my own accord.”

Leliana stared at her again, maybe trying to remember the drawings that had been spread of her or any other descriptions. It wouldn’t matter – with her hair darkened, Rosalya looked perfectly Fereldan, no exceptional facial features that would make her easy to recognize.

“But why?” she finally asked.

“As you may know, I’m the youngest of five girls. These girls have each married an upstanding young noble – the Lord of this, a Duke of that, you know the type. But I never quite fit into Orlesian court. I don’t have that flair for the dramatics, I’m not charming enough, honestly, I wasn’t exceptional in any way that would please potential suitors. I disliked being noble, and the nobility in turn disliked me.” Rosalya was glad she’d had a moment to prepare this story, because she couldn’t have acted this story out better if she’d lived it.

“Being my father’s favourite, he could never see me unhappy,” Rosalya continued. “I tried my best, but he knew the efforts would be fruitless. He forgave me for it, though. There would be more than enough heirs to continue the family, obviously, so his last daughter leaving court would not be a disaster. Except, of course, that this was Orlais. You don’t just _leave_ the Game.”

Rosalya sighed as she thought of her parents. It had been such a long time since she’d seen them.

“My father knew of some bards that could help me escape. That’s how the Lost Trevelyan was born.”

Leliana still looked skeptical. Rosalya took off the glove on her left hand and showed Leliana a scar on her wrist. “See? The scar of the description.” She then moved aside her collar and showed the three long, thin, white scars that ran from her collarbone across her shoulder. “And the matching claw marks on my shoulder.”

“I can scarcely believe it,” Leliana finally admitted. “To have tricked all of Orlais so completely!” she said with admiration clear in her voice.

“Oh! None of it was my doing. Lucky for me, all I had to do was disappear. Despite growing up in Orlesian court, I never became quite adept at lying,” Rosalya blushed.

“The Ambassador will want to make an announcement when she learns of this,” Leliana remarked.

“I suppose that is fine. I can’t very well pretend to be someone else, can I?” Rosalya offered as a joke (one that only she really understood). “This whole thing will surely make a nice story for the minstrels. That the Lost Girl of Ostwick might also be the Herald of Andraste…”

“So what have you done since you disappeared? How did you get by?”

Rosalya tucked a loose strand of hair behind her right ear. “I went from town to town, staying for a few months before moving on again. I had enough gold to get started at first, but when that ran out I worked in taverns.”

Leliana sighed lightly at her response. She must have hoped for something useful. “I assume this is a long shot, Herald, but do you have any experience fighting? Swords, daggers, bow and arrow?”

Rosalya squirmed as she looked away from Leliana and forced herself to blush. “I learned some tricks with daggers over the years…” she offered unsurely. She finally looked at Leliana, whose expression hadn’t changed at all. “It’s good enough to protect myself while on the road, but probably not suitable for a situation like this,” she admitted.

“Then we’ll have to get started on your training as soon as possible, Herald. I would oversee them myself, but I’m afraid my duties as Spymaster will be taking up most of my time. Daggers, you said – I suppose Varric or the Commander could help you with that…” Leliana was talking mostly to herself as a plan formed in her mind. “Here is what I propose, Herald: while you meet up with the Ambassador, I will inform Varric and Cullen of your need for training.”

“Why do I need training?” Rosalya asked dumbly.

“Well, you’re needed wherever rifts open up, Herald. You are, after all, the sole person capable of closing them.”

Rosalya didn’t respond. On the inside, she was happy, but she had to look mortified at the thought of going out when she could hardly defend herself. Noble Trevelyan would have loved to just stay in Haven and perform menial tasks while nameless soldiers gave their lives for her. But the mark on her hand made her absolutely necessary in the field. Well, then. She’d get to see more of the world, still.

* * *

“It’s been a true pleasure meeting you, Ambassador. I will take the afternoon to wash out this color from my hair,” Rosalya laughed gently as she stroked part of her hair nervously. “I’ll look exactly like the Lost Girl that left Ostwick years ago.”

Rosalya and Josephine Montilyet had spent over an hour chatting – after they’d chased off the marquis with unshakable diplomacy. The Ambassador had taken to the noble girl immediately after such a display, asking questions faster than Rosalya could answer them.

Leliana had been right in her predictions that Josephine would be overjoyed at learning of Rosalya’s origins. But aside from the poetic value of the story, she was happy to have someone in the Inquisition who shared her skills and preference for diplomacy as opposed to the ways of the sword.

Rosalya, on her side, was struck by the absolute warmth and friendliness that Josephine exuded. She had yet to meet anyone else so ‘pure’ as the Ambassador. She knew none of her other companions believed in the good of people as much as this woman did. This made things easy for her – Josephine merely played by the rules of Orlesian court, and these rules Rosalya knew by heart. Josephine wouldn’t be looking for fleeting expressions and clumsily hidden lies in her actions, which made it so much easier for Rosalya to relax for a moment.

She wasn’t planning on _using_ Josephine – no, Rosalya had some heart left in her. She wouldn’t use any of her companions unless she had no other choice. Only people who deserve it get to feel her cruelty.

“I still find it so very hard to believe!” Ambassador Montilyet exclaimed in her adorable accent. “The Inquisition, finding the Lost Girl of Ostwick! What an extraordinary start to our adventure! We should make the announcement tonight, when everyone’s gathered in the Chantry for dinner. Does that suit you?”

Rosalya nodded, smiling broadly. “I’ll get started right away, Ambassador,” she bid her new friend goodbye and walked off. On her way out of the Chantry, she grabbed an old rusty bucket to fill with water. She thought of getting water from the lake, but knew it had frozen over enough for soldiers with heavy armor to stand on top of it. It’d be too hard to get through the ice. Instead, she looked for a yet untouched patch of snow somewhere on the edge of town, filling her bucket to the brink with that.

She put the bucket in her hut, close to the fire so it would melt quickly. She wandered through the town until she found Adan’s hut, asking him for a few leftover elfroot leaves and a bowl to combine her herbs in. Back in her hut, she added Vandal Aria roots and some of the ‘secret’ powder that was essential to removing the dye. She mashed it into a thick paste before tipping it into the bucket of now tepid water. As she mixed it, the water turned a transparent green.

Rosalya pushed the bucket closer to the fire as she got up again, wondering who she could ask for help with this. The last time she’d tried to wash out the dye herself, she’d ruined a carpet so expensive, it would’ve cost her a hand, had anyone found out it was her. She continued her wandering through Haven until she stumbled across, really, the only person she could ask.

“Varric,” she greeted the dwarf at his fire. “I have a request to make of you.”

“I’m all ears, Herald.”

Rosalya swallowed. “Make that two, then. The first is, please call me either Rosalya or ‘lady Trevelyan’ if my first name is too familiar for you.”

“Trevelyan, you say?”

“The one and only,” Rosalya responded quietly, looking down at her hands. “Before you ask about the hair, that is part of the other request.”

Varric shut his mouth, his question answered before he could state it. He looked at Rosalya expectantly.

“Mind you, it’s a very odd request, but I figured you wouldn’t mind too much…”

“Well, you got that right,” Varric interjected quickly. “Come on then, out with it.”

“If you could come with me, to my hut, and help me wash this dark dye out of my hair, I would appreciate it.”

“I-“ Varric stammered as he processed the words. “Sure, kid,” he followed up. “A first for everything, I guess.” He shrugged as he followed Rosalya.

Once inside the hut, Rosalya turned to Varric and put the bucket between them. “I’ll dunk my head in this goop, and I need you to make sure all the dye rinses out.”

Varric laughed; a heaving laugh that came from deep in his chest. “This is definitely going in my next book.”

“I’ll allow it as a thank you for helping me,” Rosalya agreed, and promptly submerged her hair in the water. She held on to the bucket with both her hands – she wouldn’t tip over the bucket this time, not so close to the fire. Who knew what the herbs would do once in contact with flames?

She felt Varric’s hands move through her locks, washing the dye from her hair. The strength from the color had faded already, so it let go of her hair easily; the secret recipe doing its job. “Okay, kid,” that’s about it,” Varric said after a few minutes.

Slowly, she lifted her head out of the bucket, keeping her dripping hair above it. She wringed out her long hair and grabbed a thin towel from her bedside table to wrap her hair in. She dried it off quickly and threw the towel over the bucket, shaking out her hair.

Varric stared at her as he saw her face framed by white instead of black. “Wow, Snowflake. I never would’ve guessed.”

“That’s the point,” Rosalya smiled. She pulled a brush from her backpack and started untangling her locks.

Varric leaned against her bed as he looked at her. “So, you’re the Lost Daughter of Ostwick, then?”

Rosalya simply nodded.

“You weren’t really lost, I take it?”

“It was my way out of the Game. I wasn’t meant for that life, so I left court.”

Varric let out a small smile, a look of admiration on his face, similar to Leliana’s when Rosalya had explained how the legend had come to be.

“Surely, you understand that to the rest of the world, I _have_ been lost,” Rosalya added. She knew she wouldn’t have to say much to get Varric to catch on. “As a storyteller yourself, you must know the importance of a good story.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Snowflake. And hey, the Nightingale told me you’ll be training with me and the Commander from now on. That’s good,” he said as he nodded his head tightly. “I’m afraid you’ll need it. Demons have been seen all over Ferelden and Orlais. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Rosalya sighed deeply, staring at the wooden planks on the floor beneath her. “It’s true, I am in no way prepared for that. I just hope no one will be expecting miracles from me.”

“Surviving that explosion and closing the Breach will do for now, in terms of miracles. Anyway, I’ve got some letters to write. I’ll leave you to it,” he finished with a nod to her wet hair, before taking his leave.

Rosalya couldn’t go out while her hair was wet – the cold air would freeze it over within seconds. So instead, she spent the time next to the fire, brushing her hair into the old loose waves that made all the ladies of the Trevelyan family so easy to recognize. As it dried further, she got her set of make-up from her backpack. Most of it was old, from the last time she was in Val Royeaux (which had been over a year ago), but it would still work. Coal didn’t age, and she didn’t need any of her (by now, probably faded) colors.

Noble Trevelyan wore her hair parted to the right, with the left side swept behind her ears and over her right shoulder. Her deep brown eyes were even darker now that they were outlined with the help of a stick of coal. The uncolored hair changed her complexion completely – she looked more alive and healthy than she had in years. More friendly, too. Dark colors had always given her a hard edge, which came in useful most of the time, but wouldn’t do her good in Haven.

She looked like another person now. It felt fitting – Rosalya felt like she could _be_ the Herald they expected her to be.

Before she left, she threw on her leather hood, covering her hair and hiding her face. The sun was setting, meaning the dinner bells would start chiming soon. She made her way to the Chantry, where a few wooden tables had been setup in neat rows. This was for the soldiers and visiting nobles, mostly. Any villagers were free to join, but they usually ate in their own homes. Everyone ate at the same time, except for the guards on duty.

One table stood out at the front of the room. Apparently, it had been reserved for members of the Inquisition, and its Herald. As soon as Josephine spotted Rosalya standing in the door opening, she waved at her to come over. Rosalya sat down next to her, lowering her hood slowly and listened to the conversation Josephine was having with Varric, occasionally answering the questions they asked her. Leliana had to look twice as she joined them at the table. Cullen stared at her for a long time, thinking she didn’t notice.

Josephine had prepared the whole announcement to the smallest details. Once everyone had sat down, she raised her voice and flawlessly told the legend of the Lost Trevelyan. Even Varric was listening intently to her every word.

“You may wonder, why am I telling you this story now? It is because of a strange coincidence: the Lost Daughter of Ostwick has returned, right here in Haven. But perhaps you know her better as the Herald of Andraste!” Josephine motioned for her to stand up and wave. Rosalya, who had thoughtfully taken off her gloves, made sure to wave with the marked hand, to prove she was still the one who sealed the Breach even though her hair was white now.

A wave of gasps went through the room as the soldiers and nobles present connected the two persona in their minds. Murmurs burst from many places in the room. Josephine let them have their moment, before recapturing their attention.

“There’s another, not any less important matter we’d like to announce. The Inquisition has officially been called upon, which means we will start building this organization as quick as the Maker allows us. Our goal is to seal the rifts and, eventually, the Breach in the sky, as well as finding the one that started this all. If any of you wish to join us, or wish to donate, myself and the Seeker Cassandra will be free to talk to after dinner. Thank you.”

With that, servants brought out big pots of food from the kitchen, distributing them along the tables. There were two kinds of soup as well as a soup and bread available, enough for everyone attending. Haven had been well-stocked in advance of the Conclave, but was left with an overflowing provision room now that most of the attendees had, in one way or another, left the town earlier than expected.

Even so, if the Inquisition’s efforts would be accepted among nobility, here and in the rest of Thedas, there would be no worry of food at all. Closing rifts and helping out in different areas of the country would surely improve the Inquisition’s influence there, which, in return, would get them money, food supplies – whatever they needed, really.

Rosalya ate slowly, listening in on the conversations buzzing around the table. There was talk of a Chantry sister in the Hinterlands that had asked for their help. After they were sure Rosalya had recovered, they’d send her there with a team to protect her.

Closing rifts, helping out refugees, killing demons and bad guys – Rosalya was aching to go out. It had been a very long time since she’d stood for anything _good_. Her way of life made it difficult to be good at all. If the stories were true, Leliana had been through the same, but at least she had the Maker’s guidance to help her through. Rosalya wasn’t sure what to believe about Andraste and her Holy Husband, but she knew one thing: she wanted to be the hero the Inquisition saw in her.


	5. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalya's first training does not go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Don't worry, I haven't left this story to die. I've moved out of my parents' house to my own room and my classes turn out to be pretty intense. But I'm all moved in now, so I'll have more time to write. I also plan to use this story for NaNo next month, so expect much more from me.

“Morning, Herald. You are quite on time for your training – good start. I was thinking, to determine your skill level, we should spar,” the Commander stated as he switched out his sword for a long dagger.

Rosalya stood still in front of his tent, waiting for an explanation. If Leliana had informed him correctly, he should know that Rosalya Trevelyan had barely any experience fighting. Why would he let her fight someone like him? Especially in the middle of the soldier’s camp? Around them, recruits were training under the command of Cassandra, but some of them were watching them as they pretended to catch their breath or switching weapons.

She’d found it weird that the Commander would train her. As the leader of their armies, he was a busy man. Cassandra would’ve made more sense, but apparently Commander Cullen had offered to train her even before she’d had confessed her origins to Leliana.

So here she was, the sun barely hovering over the tips of the mountains – as far as the sun was visible with the green Breach still in the sky – in light rogue armor. Two sets, to be precise, but no one knew. Rosalya wore a scout coat almost two sizes bigger than she needed, but kept a thick layer of clothing underneath it. A breastband, tunic and longshirt, two sets of leather breeches, a thick woollen undercoat, a leather jacket and then the scout coat fastened tightly. She was certain not to catch a cold in the snow of Haven, but that was not why she wore so many clothes.

The large amount of fabric around her body made her more clumsy than she really was, her movements hindered just enough for it to look believable. Had she just worn one set of armour, her instinct would’ve made her moves too fluid and graceful for someone of her ‘training’. And past that, it made her look plump, like any good noble should be.

She made sure she looked awkward and out of place between all the fighting. Before, she had loved training – spent so much of her time sparring with her companions – but she had put that part of her far away now.

When the Commander stayed silent, Rosalya opened her mouth slowly. “Uh…” she stammered. “Here?”

“Of course, Herald,” the Commander responded casually. “Where else?”

Rosalya swallowed the arguments that came to mind immediately. She didn’t want to seem resistant so early in this situation, so instead of speaking up she just nodded tightly.

Commander Cullen led them to a spot with enough space to spar, and took up his position. He barely waited until Rosalya seemed ready before making his first move. At first, Rosalya reacted on instinct, hands coming up to block his stab. She corrected herself quickly, making tiny slip-ups and flinching away from the Commander’s attacks. Within half a minute, she let her grip on her dagger slip, letting it drop from her hands the next time the Commander hit the blade.

He had a smirk on his face as he fought her, she noticed. Rosalya’s expressions were all over the place, faking a lack of focus, but she was reading him while they sparred. When her dagger flew from her hand, he didn’t let up one bit, so Rosalya continued as well.

She decided she could give herself one ‘lucky stab’, the tip of her second dagger nicking his hand. It forced the Commander’s only dagger from his hand. Rosalya could’ve caught it as it fell, but told herself not to push it.

Commander Cullen’s expression changed as he realized her attack had been successful. Despite having no weapons, he didn’t stop the fight, instead parrying her (honestly, rather weak) attacks with his gauntlets. Rosalya was backing away, thinking the Commander would end the fight any moment now.

Instead of ending the fight, though, his hand shot out and grabbed her neck. He lifted her feet off the ground easily (either he was amazingly strong or she’d lost more weight than she remembered) before using his body to push her to the ground. Mere seconds ago, she’d had his dagger flying and now she was on the ground, his knee pushing lightly into her hip and a lot of his weight on her neck.

Rosalya went slack, thinking the fight was over. The Commander’s free hand flying in from the corner of her eyes surprised her. She barely turned away in time, the leather of his gloved knuckles brushing over her jaw roughly instead of her nose.

She yelped, bringing her hands up to cover her face. When nothing followed, she looked through her hands at the Inquisition’s Commander. He was staring at her intently, his face almost neutral. Rosalya had a hard time figuring out whether he was impressed or angry.

Rosalya grabbed the wrist that still pushed onto her throat, trying to pull it off. The Commander’s grip tightened at first. “Let go,” Rosalya gritted through her teeth, her breathing going more shallow than she liked.

The Commander’s hand lingered for a moment longer, before he stood up, leaving her on the ground to grab his dagger. He didn’t even offer his hand. Rosalya sat up, struggling to contain a coughing fit as her throat tried to relax. She leaned forward, shielding her face with her hair as she caught her breath.

A quick glance around showed almost all the recruits in the immediate vicinity watching them. Or her, more precisely. Rosalya’s cheeks burned in anger. Surely they thought she was embarrassed… Perhaps she should go with that then.

“Are you getting up?” the Commander asked flippantly. Rosalya kept her head down as she got up, taking the dagger Commander Cullen held out to her. Instead of taking up position again, she sheathed it and stepped back from the Commander.

“What are you doing, Herald?” the Commander asked, a look of confusion crossing his face.

“Thank you for the training, Commander,” Rosalya said in a steely voice that did little to conceal her anger. “Should I need another lesson in humiliation, I’ll know where to find you.”

She threw a fierce glare in his direction, before stalking away from him. Both the Commander and his soldier’s stared after her as she wove her way through the crowds towards the gates of Haven.

-

To say that lunch in the Chantry later that day was awkward, was an understatement. Rosalya was still fuming, pulling back into herself as she picked through her food. Her face seemed permanently locked in a scowl, as did the Commander’s. Leliana and Josephine especially tried their hardest to lighten the mood, but to no avail. Even Cassandra and Varric’s bickering was easier to deal with.

Neither Leliana nor Varric, seated on both sides of her, could get her to speak more than three words. Rosalya was experienced at cutting off conversations as they started and utilised that skill as much as possible now.

Rosalya was the first to get up from the table, her plate only half empty. Leliana followed her almost instantly, asking her to stop when they were outside the Chantry.

“What is the matter, Rosalya?” she asked gently, a hand on her arm. Use of her name instead of her title. Hand rubbing lightly, head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised. Rosalya couldn’t help but look for a deeper intention behind everyone’s actions right now. It felt like everyone was watching her for slip-ups and it made her suspicious.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Sister,” Rosalya sighed with a weak smile. I’m better at this than you, she thought as she added a shrug for effect. “It appears my training with the Commander had a bit of a rough start.” She didn’t dare elaborate, fearing Cullen, or one of the Spymaster’s scouts, had already informed Leliana of the spectacle that took place that morning.

“You do seem terribly affected, though,” Leliana continued, head tilting forward, her eyes widening and her hands falling back into a light fold.

“I’m fine,” Rosalya brushed her off. “I’ll see you in the war room later.” Without waiting for a reply, she left Leliana at her tent, making her way to her cabin, only to be intercepted by the Commander himself, waiting at her door. He must have slipped past them while she was talking to Leliana.

“Not you too, Commander,” Rosalya sighed, barely upholding her civilities. “You may have noticed, I am in no mood to talk. Perhaps later, after our meeting, yes?” She almost slipped into another character, her ‘yes’ bordering on Antivan as she unlocked her door.

“I only wish to inform you that your training, from now on, will be an hour past dawn at the logging stand you came across a few days ago,” the Commander said, his face as stony as his voice. He could hardly be bothered to make eye contact as he spoke with her, a cold barrier forming between them as if cast by a mage.

“Confirmed, Commander.” She smiled a bright, fake smile at him, “Thank you!” before slamming the door shut in his face.


	6. Heroics in the Hinterlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition visits the Hinterlands and brings back refugees and horses. Rosalya has to wait around in Haven until her armor is ready for Val Royeaux.

It was five weeks since the Conclave. Rosalya and her companions returned from the Hinterlands, after three weeks of fighting and traveling. The area around Redcliffe was plagued with apostates and Templars hunting each other down. The fighting was tearing the lands apart, with refugees having no safe place to go.

But Rosalya had made sure they had a place now. A long stream of refugees followed her as she followed the path up the hill, towards Haven. With most of the nobility having left Haven over the past few weeks, a lot of space had cleared up. While Noble Rosalya hid behind a motive of doing good and saving people, Rosalya’s practical side knew that the Inquisition needed followers. Until the mess in the Hinterlands had been cleared up, refugees were more than welcome with them. The lords of the Hinterlands would be more than happy to have that problem off their plate.

Mother Giselle had been more than thankful for the Inquisition’s help, and gave Rosalya a list of people she could seek out in Val Royeaux. Instead of joining the refugees, she decided to stay in the Hinterlands, in case more travellers popped up.

Rosalya was not completely happy with what they’d achieved over the last few weeks. She’d been stuck between her character and her ambitions most of the time. Cassandra didn’t dare take risks when it came to the fighting – it was her first priority to protect the Herald, of course. It took days of arranging and convincing before Cassandra agreed to seek out the Templar’s hideout near the waterfall.

Thankfully, Varric agreed with Rosalya most of the time. He, too, wanted to help everyone he came across. He said that was the most important thing Hawke had taught him, during all those years in Kirkwall. Rosalya was glad to have someone on her side, though she could’ve done with a little less arguing from the Seeker and Varric.

Solas was no help when the two were at it again, whether it was while they were walking somewhere or around the campfire at night. He was either lost in thought or a book and only seemed to be paying attention when they were attacked or if someone called his name.

Rosalya couldn’t dismiss the suspicion she felt around Solas. He seemed aloof and distracted, but his eyes were too sharp for that. He was usually the first with a weapon in his hands when they were attacked and never had to ask to repeat a question whenever they suddenly included him in their conversations.

The weeks hadn’t been too bad, though. She had become a familiar face for the refugees quickly, bringing food (Varric’s archery skills made hunting easy), blankets (Solas knew how to strip the rams’ fur and clean it so it could be worn) and killing outside threats. Cassandra pointed them to rifts in the area, but they had missed a few still. Every so often, a demon would pop up between the trees, but they hadn’t had time to venture out further. On the north-eastern end of the lands, they discovered a dragon. On the south-western end, behind the farms, they found wolves and bears five times their size (ten times in Varric’s case). They wisely avoided those parts until they could get more Inquisition forces settled.

Either way, the refugees that had followed Rosalya to Haven would be safe now. She’d even gotten a few mounts from horsemaster Dennet. They were still building the watchtowers, but he promised to join the Inquisition after those were finished. Rosalya talked him into handing over a few of the horses in the meantime. She just hoped it would satisfy the council, having had no clue what they’d expected of her next to closing rifts.

“…That reminds me, I should inform Cullen of your progress once I see him,” Cassandra said as we saw the soldiers’ camp rise up on the other side of the hill.

“Did I? Progress, I mean,” Rosalya responded lightly, reseating the sleeping refugee child in her lap so its head lay against her arm comfortably. It had been a long trek from the Hinterlands to here, especially with so many people ill-prepared for the snow. A few scouts had gone ahead to fix carts, but not everyone fit on them. Most of the refugees didn’t seem to mind, happy to be safe again.

“Why- yes, of course, Herald! I’ll admit I haven’t seen you train past your first day with the Commander, so I only had his reports to go on. I was afraid I’d have to hover over you like a shadow while we were out there. But you are, at the minimum, able to defend yourself.”

Rosalya hummed thoughtfully. “Do you think I should’ve been able to do more?”

“Well, there’s… One thing I noticed,” Cassandra started carefully. “Only, I’ve not yet decided whether this is a good or a bad thing. You are very steadfast when it comes to battling demons, but when fighting apostates and Templars, I saw you hesitate more than once.”

Cassandra glanced at Rosalya, trying to gauge her reaction. When the Herald said nothing, she continued. “Hesitating is dangerous in a fight. It’s what gets you killed. But at the same time, it shows you have a conscience. It is a fine line that all soldiers have to figure out for themselves how to walk over.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Rosalya responded almost immediately. Cassandra smiled tightly and nodded before spurring her horse towards the gates. Rosalya felt the need to tell people what she wasn’t more and more these days. I’m not a hero. I’m not a saviour. I’m not another Messiah from the Maker’s side. I’m not the Divine’s murderer. I’m not noble. All these things, she was sure she wasn’t. But what she _was_ then, was a whole other question she couldn’t find an answer to.

The child in her lap stirred, which brought Rosalya back from her thoughts. “We’re almost there,” she told the young girl. “There’s the gates to Haven.”

-

A scout informed her that the council was waiting for her in the war room, before she’d even set foot inside the town. Rosalya covered a sigh, went to put her backpack in her room and made her way towards the Chantry.

“Good afternoon, Herald,” Leliana greeted her at the back of the Chantry hall. “It’s good to see you back. And with a following, so I’ve heard!”

Rosalya smiled sweetly at her as they entered the war room. A light blush rose to her cheeks. “Well, I couldn’t just leave them in the middle of a battle zone, could I?” she defended her actions quickly. “With the nobility back in their castles, there’s more than enough space for everyone here.”

“Calm down, Herald, we’re not berating you,” Josephine interjected. “It was unexpected, yes, but altogether not a bad idea at all.” Rosalya inclined her head in thanks for the compliment.

As the meeting continued, it turned out that the preparations for Rosalya’s next trip were almost finished already. There really was just one thing they couldn’t agree on: new armor.

“Honestly, Cassandra, I thought you, as Nevarran nobility, would understand the power of good-looking armor,” Josephine accused.

Cassandra grunted. “Do not speak to me of my bloodline. You know I couldn't care less about that. As a warrior, I understand that function goes above form when it comes to armor. I care not what Orlesians do with their dresses and their masks – armor should protect you from attacks, not make you look pretty.”

Cullen nodded his agreement, while Leliana just sighed. Rosalya had to hide a smirk at this. The Commander, with his imposing cloak and his clunky gauntlets that made it impossible to hold a quill properly, seemed to not be aware of how he used his armor. He used it to look powerful and strong, for there was hardly any fighting in Haven that needed that type of armor.

“Ladies, please,” Leliana interjected as both Josephine and Cassandra started up again. “If it’s alright with you, Herald, I will consult with the smith to make you an appropriate set of armor.” At Rosalya’s nod of consent, she addressed the rest of the room. “I assure you, I am well aware that Orlesians fight with both hidden blades and nasty gossip. Any armor that I approve of will protect the Herald against both.”

-

The Chantry was filled to the brim with new villagers that evening. Rosalya was tired from her weeks away, so instead of joining at the table, she took her meal outside. Right at the edge of Haven, just before the wooden spikes that served as the town’s walls, she found a log that wasn’t covered by dirt or snow.

The porridge was still the same as when she’d first had a meal in Haven, a month ago. But it was good porridge, so she didn’t mind. It was certainly better than what they’d managed in the Hinterlands, with the bits of ramsmeat and mushrooms they’d managed to salvage.

Rosalya watched the guards patrol the edges of Haven as she ate. It would be dark soon, night falling early in this part of Thedas.

She’d been staring at the sunset over the frozen lake for a while, when she was shaken from her thoughts. “Herald.”

Rosalya looked up and saw the Commander, two mugs of Flissa’s ale in his hands. “You didn’t join us in the Chantry.” She nodded in response.

Commander Cullen held out one of the mugs. “I got this for you, to-“ he broke off for a moment, “to wash down the porridge.”

“It’s a shame Josephine hasn’t managed to get us better supplies, yet,” Rosalya stated with a glance at her empty bowl. If the Chantry hadn’t been so busy, she would’ve gone back in for seconds. She knew the Commander didn’t mind the food too, so he must’ve assumed she was dissatisfied. Well, Noble Trevelyan would be, of course.

A few muscles in the Commander’s face tensed for a second at her reply, before he caught himself. “Well, Haven is not an easy place to bring and hold fresh goods. And we haven’t amassed much support from the nobility yet.”

Rosalya took a big gulp from her mug. “Maybe I can find someone in Val Royeaux willing to supply us.”

Cullen was quiet for a moment. “Seeker Pentaghast has told me about your progress while in the Hinterlands,” he finally started. Ah, right, that’s why he’s here then.

“Yes? What about it?” Rosalya asked as she turned towards the Commander, cocking her head to the side.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked without wasting another second. Rosalya was taken aback by his direct question. “Well, that’s rather an unexpected question you’re asking me, Commander...” she trailed off first. When Rosalya saw he wouldn’t bite and apologize for startling her, she continued. “I don’t think I have ever outright killed anyone, no,” she finally admitted.

This might be the biggest lie she’d told as Noble Trevelyan. She alone had killed more people than a whole batallion of soldiers might have done. To say she’d never killed anyone was a gross understatement.

“Why not?” the Commander asked.

“Well, I’ve never had to, of course. I try to avoid conflict as much as possible.”

“And you’ve never been attacked on the road?”

“That... Yes. But I was never alone on the road. I-“ Rosalya blushed and shifted. “I had other people who could fight for me.” She glanced up at Commander Cullen to see if her lies worked on him. His face was unreadable save for the eternal frown he wore.

“Why are you questioning me about this, Commander?” she asked when he didn’t respond.

“I suppose I’m trying to figure out how much more soldiers you’re going to cost me before you start fighting for yourself,” he finally said, almost a hiss as he narrowed his eyes at her.

Rosalya’s shoulders stiffened at hearing the accusation. “What are you talking about?”

“The soldier that was attacked by an apostate. His name was Devon. Married to a girl named Nanda. I’ll be writing her a letter tonight.”

“I know about the soldier. What does that have to do with me?”

“I was told you wandered too far from the camp and he had to save you from a blood mage.”

Rosalya sighed lightly as she turned away from the Commander. That was the official story, yes. In reality, he’d been telling big stories about his prowess and heroics while drinking around the campfire. By the time everyone had gone to bed, he was drunk out of his mind and he started staggering around in search of an enemy he could cut down. Rosalya had snuck out of her tent and went after him, to guide him into a sleeping roll or something. He would only get in trouble in this state. But by the time she’d caught up with him, he was already arguing with a mage, his sword out and ready.

The mage was mad as well - both crazy and angry - even more than Devon had been in that moment and attacked him as soon as he got the chance. She must’ve used up her magic, because she grabbed a dagger to make a cut across her handpalm. Rosalya recognized the signs from earlier missions and a second later, one of her throwing daggers found its destination between the mage’s eyes.

After retrieving her dagger, she went to check out Devon, who was hurt pretty badly. She dragged him back to camp and made up a story about him saving her, because it couldn’t very well be the other way around, right? But he hadn't survived his wounds, despite her timely interruption. And apparently her story had come back to bite her, because now the Commander was blaming her for his untimely, though heroic death.

“That is true,” she finally admitted without looking at him.

“Not everyone will be so willing to lay down their lives for you, Herald,” the Commander spat.

“They should,” Rosalya flared up. “That’s exactly what they sign up for when they join the Inquisition.” Maker, at times she truly hated that she’d picked a stuck up noble character to play. All those years hiding her nobility had changed her point of view radically. Roughly nine of ten parts of nobility were truly terrible – arrogant and selfish because of an inherited title and the blood running through their veins.

“That doesn’t mean you lie down and wait to either be killed or be saved whenever you come across an enemy,” Commander Cullen hadn’t raised his voice, but it was trembling dangerously.

“That’s not what I did, was it? I fought for myself as well. I had barely even held a dagger before I came here." She stuck up her nose at him haughtily. "In my opinion, I did very well, considering the circumstances.”

“Do keep telling yourself that, Herald,” Cullen grunted, walking off before she could respond.

 

 


End file.
